Return to

Home Page

NEW AUTHORS SHOWCASE

 

 

6M

P3

The Kitchen Fairy

By

Lucy Owen

Synopsis

The Kitchen Fairy is a multi-narrative work in which several nameless characters either reconstruct or directly describe the disintegration of an overly intense relationship which culminates in death.  The couple at the heart of the story each present their versions of similar events such as their initial meeting as teenagers and significant moments in their ten-year relationship.

 

The principal narrative is from one of the investigative team sent to the discovery of two bodies a suspected murder and suicide; this character finds himself embroiled in the history of the couple. Unable to remain neutral and professional, this narrator discovers an affinity with the dead female and determines to explain the outcome of her life as he attempts to reconstruct the history of the couple who, initially happy and successful become tangled in a cycle of tragedy, abuse and violence. 

 

Extract from The Kitchen Fairy

 

The door is finally flung aside, bare-chested he stands before me, livid with rage and frustration. A plant grasped in his fist, poised to hurl at my head. The terracotta edge clips my forehead as I fail to duck in time. I feel the scarlet bubble and burst from just above an eyebrow. Game on. I’ll have to run quickly this time. Birthday or not, he’s taken the bait too much, I’ve really unleashed the monster. Perhaps it’s what I’ve wanted. The excuse to finally be free.

 

- No one. No one. Could ever. Have loved you. Like I did. No one.

 

Telegraphic diction to emphasise the point. I’m past sanity now, uncaring of my words. He may have craved me as a young man, but now, unadulterated hatred blazes in his eyes. Yet I stand before him, mocking and taunting, and he lunges for me, knotting my hair in his fist as I fail to flee, he drags me into the bathroom, uncaring of the blood scattering from my head cut. Smashing my face against the wall he spits that he loved me more than his own life and I hurled it back to him. I can smell his breath, toothpaste fresh and taste the spittle as it sprays onto my parted lips. He’s out of control now. The house won’t stand this onslaught. I pray the cat is hiding.

 

Twisting my arms up my back, jarring my wrists, he digs into me, clawing at my flesh. I don’t resist. There isn’t a point, yet. Squeezing what remaining breath I have from my ribs, he presses me harder against the wall, head angled unnaturally against the already perilous picture suspended angrily from the panel pin I face at my eye level. I’ll bear more than scar tissue after this. The words are hissed, a tirade I’ve heard a thousand times before, and still the tears spill angrily from my lids. But he’s oblivious now to any form of suffering I may be undergoing. He just desires damage, he no longer cares if others see the result, we lie our way around it all.

 

A final thrust, scraping my cheeks, grazing my head against the porcelain of the paper holder, I writhe away from his grasp and flee downstairs to the kitchen. But too late. He follows in my wake, passion blazing, fists flailing, drawers flung open as we search for any form of missile to destroy, or to use as a weapon. Through to the lounge, the television receives a savage impact of wooden cat, revealing a gaping blank hole of iniquity. Books fly to my head, plants, furniture, nothing is sacrosanct.  Desperately I dash to my own room. No sanctuary, he hurls the bed into oblivion, scattering bedding, clothes, jewellery, wrenching my earrings into grotesque distortions in his anger. A previous present, a sad reminder of all that had past. He’d paid a small fortune for those gold hoops.

 

I scream at him to stop. To calm down. Too late. The red mist has descended. Books hurtle from shelves as he frantically searches for more missiles to hurl at me. I cower pathetically fending them with crossed arms, the covers bruise skin, paper tears into me, as I grasp and return them towards him. I’m not taking this anymore. Soft toys suicidal on shelves tumble, cascade, he shreds any in his wake, scattering stuffing manically. He just wants to show me how very much he loathes my possessions. I am to be eradicated from his memory. There’s no escaping the debris of all I once cherished.

 

The eyes harder now, I think it’s me he finally wants to destroy but he won’t. pictures fly from walls, glass frames shattering upon any form of contact. The shards penetrate already lacerated skin, but he’s oblivious to pain now. Slivers assault my scalp, my cheeks, crimson trails darken as they meet their precursors the bruises.

- I am going to kill you. You won’t give me my freedom. Why won’t you just let me be? Why won’t you just get out of my life?

- I can’t. You love me.

- I don’t love you. How many times can I tell you? Why can’t you believe me? I hate you. I did love her. She gave me far more than you ever can. And she left me with dignity. She knew when to give in, not like you. Get a life. You can’t, can you? You don’t have a life. I’m everything to you. Well, I can’t do it anymore. I can’t be your life. And you know what’s really sad. The one person who really hates you, is you.

 

Yet I stand and take it as usual. I’ve heard it all before, all I can do is cry pathetically, the blood diluted by tears spilling down my cheeks. I feel empty, sucked arid by emotion. I want to die. To cease. There really isn’t a point anymore. Closing my eyes against the tirade, I allow the sobs to take me, forgetting my tears and choking will only infuriate, never alleviate. Too late, he lunges at me, hard fingers lock into my shoulders as he pulls me towards him, not for physical contact, he just wants to silence me.

- Shut up. For Christ’s sake, stop crying.  Why can’t you just shut up?

 

A million questions unanswered. I don’t know why or how anymore.

 

Propelling me forewards, almost dragging me from the debris I am marched unceremoniously out of the wrecked bedroom towards his own, our former. His reasons unfathomable, he flings me down onto our bed. This is unexpected. Does he think I will allow him inside me now? My dawning realisation tells me that he has found this new level of violence an excitement, its power intoxicating. I am to suffer new degradation. But this time he is wrong. I can no longer continue with this charade of coupling. He makes me sick.

 

Frantically I twist away as he stands over me, his eyes slits of disgust and revulsion. I kick out at his chest, knocking him to one side, lunging away from him, but he grabs out at my ankle as I crumple into his wardrobe, grabbing his hanging clothes for security their fragility tears with me, I am garbed in his garments, entangled and helpless. Trousers hang crazily about my neck, shirts drape themselves around my shoulders as I fall into the pit of the cupboard and just lie, half stunned surrounded by the contents of this closet. Too tired now to fight, I feel myself limp as he once more grasps at my hair, the roots tearing as he pulls me to my feet and again flings me face downwards onto the bed. I know, I realise in my soul that this will hurt more than anything else he has ever inflicted on me.